


True to One's Nature

by littleotter73



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, References to Drugs, References to Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleotter73/pseuds/littleotter73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series. Rupert Giles realizes he can’t hide from himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True to One's Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Thanks to il_mio_capitano for the quick beta and the sanity check. ;)  
> Disclaimer: Just for fun, not profit.  
> A/N: Written for giles-shorts on LiveJournal.

True to One's Nature

 

Ripper was restless. He surveyed the room noting the blissed out, sleeping bodies of Ethan’s latest bacchanalian orgy with disdain. The stale air reeked of sex, weed, and magicks, cloying and claustrophobic in the small living space. He needed to get out before he succumbed to the temptation of falling into oblivion to forget this existence. He’d volunteered to anchor tonight to ensure the safe possession and eviction of the satyr into one of the willing young men.

Pushing off the old, faded recliner, he lit a cigarette and grabbed his leather jacket before heading for the door.

A strong hand grasped his upper arm and he turned around to face his captor. “Where are you going, mate?” Ethan asked, standing naked before him but for the silk robe that he wore open.

“Out,” Ripper growled, wrenching himself free of Ethan’s hold and stomping out the door. He quickly ran down the steps, through the front door of the dilapidated warehouse, and into the street, taking in the damp, city air.

His skin still crawled and the feeling of being suffocated still lingered and he took off at a pace down the street, taking one last drag on the cigarette before flicking it into the gutter and popping his collar up against the elements and any vampires that might be out looking for a juicy jugular.

An hour into his wanderings, Ripper felt no relief and it was eating at his very soul.

It hadn’t been the first time he’d anchored a conjuring party. Although participating in one was much more fun. Staying sober and watching the frenzy with the ever increasing excess of drugs and magicks always brought about an intense feeling of self loathing and despair. It was time to move on. Time to find purpose in his life again. Of course he said that every time he anchored and he still returned to the debauched fold - to Ethan and the gang. And he hated it and himself until he found himself falling back into oblivion without a care in the world - a peace offering from Ethan, usually a party in his honor.

Although, thinking with a clear head, he wasn’t sure it was a peace offering or just a way to keep him under his control. Ethan was jealous and possessive, his mood swings from whimsical to domineering increasing exponentially. And his forays into conjuring becoming more and more reckless and fraught with danger - the risk ever outweighing the reward.

The further away from Ethan and the others, the more clear his head became and he found the beckoning call of freedom seducing him further afield. He needed to get out of the city. Spying the queued up cars parked along the street, Ripper cased several of them before eyeing one that wasn’t locked. He opened it up and quickly set about to hot wiring it before driving away into the night. He didn’t care where, just away from London - away from the fog he’d found himself after escaping Oxford and the Council.

He found himself on the road south and didn’t stop until he came to the cliffs overlooking the Channel several miles outside of Brighton. It was still dark, but the sun would rise in a few hours and he made his way over to the edge and sat down, inhaling a deep breath of the clean, salty air that wafted in off the water on the wind. The sky was filled with stars. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen them. He never managed to look up in the city, hadn’t thought about ever doing so really. Nothing had mattered beyond the thrills and the highs.

Lying back in the tall grass, Rupert put his hands behind his head and searched the heavens for answers.

What the hell was he doing? He knew he couldn’t keep up the pretense anymore. He hated Ethan and Phillip and the rest. And he hated himself. The stealing, the fighting, the drugs, the sex - well, okay, maybe not the sex - but the magicks, the highs, they were never enough anymore and the lows afterward, well, they certainly weren’t worth it.

Rupert took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the wind caress his face, lulling him off to sleep. His dreams were peaceful for the first time in perhaps a year and he woke with the warmth of sun shining on him and to the cry of seagulls sailing on the wind, and a genuine smile played over his lips for the first time in ages.

Later that morning, Rupert made a foray into Brighton to find food and a sleeping bag. Over the course of the next several days he did a lot of walking along the cliffs and down at the beach contemplating his life. He missed his parents and his friends at Oxford. His friends would be finishing up soon and several would be heading to the Academy to start their Council training. Others would be entering the real world to become doctors or lawyers or something equally important. He missed his books and his studies. He missed cross referencing and the thrill of the big “a-ha” moments. Most of all he missed the solitude, the peace.

London was frenetic, his life with the gang, chaotic. He was never alone anymore. Everyone was codependent on one another. The only way to find solitude was deep within a bong, at the bottom of a bottle, or plunging a needle into a vein and, almost always after getting high, having spent his passions buried deep within a willing partner before passing out.

It wasn’t a way to live. He knew that. Certainly not a way to live very long if he continued down that path. But for a while it had been a way to exist and a way to escape the pressures of destiny.

Now that the weather was changing and the rain coming in from the west, Rupert knew it was time to leave, to head north to London, return the car to its neighborhood for its owner to find, and pack his things. It was time to head home and face his parents. He would need to apologize and return to Oxford, assuming they accepted him back in. Strings his father, with the backing of the Council, would pull, no doubt. But he was ready.

He couldn’t continue on the way he had been.

It was late, just past midnight, when he returned the car to an open spot along the street where he had found it several days before. He’d even filled it with a half a tank of petrol. It was all he could afford, but it was the least he could do, having borrowed it for the better part of a week. And, of course, he’d wiped it clean of his prints.

The urban air was dank and burnt his lungs. The buildings loomed over him and blotted out the sky, and he zipped his jacket against the onslaught of the city as he made his way back to the warehouse. Finally he walked through the threshold and up the stairs. His hand hesitated on the door handle. The sounds of yet another party permeated through the door. He didn’t want to open it. Perhaps he should just leave his things and head to the train station. He didn’t really need them.  Anything he missed he would just eventually replace. He turned to leave. To make the clean break when the door opened.

“Ah, Ripper, there you are, old chap!” Ethan sang as a sardonic smile crept across his face, though he was clearly pleased to see his friend. “Just in time.”

Rupert felt Ethan’s hand fall to his shoulder and tried to back out of his grasp. “I came to pick up my things.”

“Well, it’s late, old boy, join the fun and leave tomorrow,” the mage invited as he lead Rupert through the door.

The lights were low, the smell of hashish wafted through the air, and the high tinny sound of a tattoo gun grated against his eardrums.

“Really, I am just getting my things,” Rupert insisted as he brushed Ethan away and made his way to his room.

He knew Ethan was following him. “One more for old times sake, Rip! You don’t want to miss this one! We’ve only been talking about it for months.”

“Leave me be, Ethan,” Rupert objected.

“Eyghon, Ripper! Think of it!”

“It’s not a good idea-”

“No it’s not. Not without you, but I haven’t the heart to tell _them_ that,” he countered, turning Rupert around to see the group as they made their preparations for the possession. “Phillip is going to anchor. You can reap the benefits this time. Last one, I promise. You and me. Two sorcerers bending the will of a demon. And afterwards, your choice of lover to ride the tide of magicks. What do you say?”

Rupert looked out at the sea of revelers. It was madness. Yet, without him, it would all go tits up. The others weren’t strong enough, didn’t have enough control of their magicks. “Stop this, Ethan, while there is still time. If you need a play thing, conjure the satyr again.”

Ethan looked him dead in the eye, challenging and resolute. “It’s Eyghon tonight. Preparations are almost done,” he declared, lifting the sleeve of his silken robe and showing off the bright, new tattooed mark of the demon.

Rupert didn’t like it. He didn’t like the frenzied look on his friends’ face. Ethan was determined, and there was no turning him from the path he was on. He never bluffed and always kept his promises.

“Fuck you!” Rupert exclaimed, having been backed into a corner. His conscious wouldn’t let him leave and allow Ethan to endanger everyone around him for his silly game. “This is the _last_ time! You hear me? Tomorrow I am out that door… for good!”

“Whatever you say,” Ethan replied, his eyes shining with mischief and malice as he raised his hands to placate Ripper’s mood.

“I _mean_ it!” Rupert growled through clenched teeth, his steely-green eyes conveying his resolve.

Ethan didn’t acknowledge his declaration. “You need the mark for safety. Stephen is quite the artist,” he praised with a wicked grin, knowing he’d won another round.

Giles glared at him before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it on a nearby chair. One last time. He was sober, clear-headed, and he needed to remain that way for the spell. Then he could walk away in the morning. Free.


End file.
